~39~
MONDAY. BACK TO WORK. Somebody had left a box outside the front door of Susko Books. Whoever it was had written in thick black marker across the top: All Yours! Jack took it inside and dropped it on the counter. He lit a cigarette and had a look.
The Diamond in Your Pocket: Discovering Your True Radiance by Gangaji; The Power of Vastu Living: Welcoming Your Soul into Your Home and Workplace by Kathleen Cox; Now Hear This Gentle Singing by Meredith Mathers and Josephine Stone; Meditation: the Complete Guide by Patricia Monaghan and Eleanor G. Diereck; The Silent Scream: Subconscious Trauma and How to Let It Out by Helena le Brun and Gary Klein; Life Is But a Dream … So Row! by Reynold Knox; After the Ecstasy, the Laundry by Jack Kornfield; and Knitted Animals by Anne-Dorthe Grigaff.
Everything you needed to read to get your shit together. Maybe Jack would take the afternoon off and have a little flip-through.
The phone started ringing. He tossed Knitted Animals back into the box, came around the counter and picked up.
‘Susko Books.’
‘Where the fuck’s my car?’
Chester Sinclair. Shit. Jack had still not been out to pick up the Fiori. ‘What’s the author’s name?’
‘What?’ There was a pause as Sinclair thought about it. ‘Don’t give me any of your crap, Susko! Where’s my car?’
‘Being serviced as we speak,’ said Jack, surprised at how smooth he managed to sound. He went with it. ‘Then I’ve got it booked in for a Super Clean Supreme at Super-Clean-All-Hand-Wash. As a sign of my appreciation.’
‘You’re fucking with me.’
‘Chester, you won’t recognise it.’
Pause. ‘Okay. What about Babylon Boy? You made the bet, right?’
This time Jack was not as quick off the cuff. He said, ‘Um …’ and Chester was all over him.
‘Oh don’t fucking say it! You made the bet, didn’t you, Jack? Tell me you made the fucking bet!’
‘Sorry, Chester. Just couldn’t get there on time.’
Silence. He could sense Sinclair’s rage down the line. He heard a throat being cleared.
‘Jack,’ said Chester, voice calm but wound tight. ‘Babylon Boy fucking romped it home, just like Eddie Roy said it would. Do you understand?’ He cleared his throat again.
‘Now, according to my calculations, the fifty dollars you were kindly asked to place on that horse in that race would have returned winnings of ’ — Jack heard paper rustling — ‘six hundred and twenty-two dollars and ten cents. See what I’m getting at, Jack?’
‘Loud and clear.’
‘Don’t make me call the cops.’
‘I’ll bring the car and the money round tonight. Okay?’
‘Just don’t make me call the cops.’
Chester Sinclair hung up.
After the rent — home and business — the credit cards, the overdrafts, the outstanding invoices, the backed-up phone and gas and electricity bills, and goddamn Chester with his car and his horse, Jack’s ten-thousand-dollar money fan was significantly reduced in size. He managed to buy himself a couple of things: some vinyl, some CDs, some new clothes and a haircut. He managed to toss a few gold coins into a few homeless cups and hands around the city. He even managed to stock up on booze and cigarettes, going for the middle ground in quality, so that it might stretch a little further into the New Year. And then that was pretty much it. Which was great. Because everything was only up to Jack’s neck again. He was used to it there. And at least he could breathe.
Two weeks later, an airmail envelope arrived in the post. From Paris. No return address. Jack tore it open with a blue Bic and pulled out what was inside. British Airways airline ticket. And a note.
Hi Jack
Paris is unbelievable!
Why don’t you come over?
Kim xox
Jack read the note again. Then he put it and the plane ticket down on the counter and lit a cigarette. He smoked and stared out into the quiet shelves of Susko Books. He was trying to remember if he and Lois still had valid passports.